Draven.
The woods were darker than usual tonight.
Not because of the absence of the moon—it was full and heavy, watching from above—but because of the air. Thick. Suffocating. Charged.
The moment I stepped into the forest clearing at the east end of Duskmoor, all eyes turned. Warriors, workers, scouts, elders—they were all here.
A crowd of about sixty, some standing shoulder to shoulder, others perched on stones or leaning against tree trunks. Cloaks, jackets, battle-worn leather. A silence that weighed more than words.
Jeffery stood at my right. Dennis was on my left. Wanda lingered on the outer edge, her arms folded, lips pressed into a grim line.
"Ten o'clock sharp," I muttered, checking the silver watch on my wrist. "Good. They listen."
I took a step forward into the centre of the circle, the firelight crackling at my back.
